


Explorations

by EASchechter



Series: On his Brother-in-Law's Secret Service. [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EASchechter/pseuds/EASchechter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too much wine + A curious Sherlock = an evening no one was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first couple of weeks after Jim's return were quiet. He settled into what had once been John's room, and almost immediately took over a number of domestic chores in the house. He forever ingratiated himself to Mrs. Hudson by cleaning the kitchen from top to bottom, segregating Sherlock's experiments and chemicals to the bottom-most cabinets and a small cube refrigerator that he found somewhere, while setting the upper cabinets for food-only tools and equipment. Sherlock grumbled about the changes, but John noticed that he stopped after Jim had been cooking for them for a week.

The problems started soon after -- Jim turned out to be compulsively neat. His rooms had a near-military spartan quality, and Sherlock's usual brand of chaos proved to be too much for him -- Sherlock and John came home one night after an evening out to find that the living room had been cleaned and organized, and all of Sherlock's papers neatly filed into labeled bins. While John definitely appreciated the effort, Sherlock did not, and the resulting row lasted over a week. It finally ended when Jim brought them a case as a peace offering. An associate of his, a retired dominatrix, had somehow found Jim and come to him for help when someone started to blackmail her, threatening her marriage and her husband's political career. The blackmailer had turned out to be the lady's former secretary and lover, working with one of her more ardent former clients. Privately, John had been very amused by the behind-the-scenes power-plays going on behind closed doors between one of Britain's most prominent power-players and his diminutive wife, and he'd agreed to never write this particular case up.

He hadn't realized that the case, and the relationships therein, had raised any questions in Sherlock's mind until Sherlock himself had brought them up. And to his shock, it wasn't to John that Sherlock came with those questions.

It was to Jim.

#

It was an unusual, quiet night at 221B. Mrs. Hudson was out for dinner and the cinema with Mrs. Turner, and Livvy was in Cardiff. With no case on, Sherlock had consented to a nice dinner at home rather than eating out, and the three men had settled into the living room. There had been quite a bit of wine with dinner, and John was feeling remarkably relaxed. Sherlock picked his glass up and swirled the red wine, studying the light through it.

"Tell me something, Jim," he said. "You are what they call a sexual deviant."

"Sherlock!" John blurted out, sitting up straight and nearly spilling his own glass of wine.

"No, no. It's all right," Jim said. He was sitting slumped in the other armchair, his glass dangling from his fingers. Wine, he'd told them, didn't have the same effect on him that hard liquor did. That was why he liked it. He smiled and sipped, then shook his head. "We're all sexual deviants here, after all. Or did you think I'd forgotten the stilettos, Doctor?"

John snorted. "I'd hoped, yeah."

"So, Sherlock. I assume it was meeting Irene that set this off. What is it you want to know?"

"You're a top--"

"I prefer Dom, actually," Jim interrupted.

"Fine. You're a Dom," Sherlock said. He leaned forward, setting his glass down and steepling his fingers under his chin. "Why?"

Jim smiled, and John almost flinched at the brittle edge to it. They hadn't spoken about Sebastian, hadn't mentioned him at all since Jim had come back. Now... trust Sherlock to force the issue.

"Power-play," Jim said eventually. "Power-play and power games. To put it crudely, I get off on it."

"But why--?"

"Oh, stop looking for reasons, Sherlock. There aren't any." Jim drained his glass and set it aside. "There's no great trauma in my past, no abusive father I'm trying to get revenge on. This is simply the way I am. I like being the one in control. And not being in complete control. It's restful."

"Wait, what?" John asked. "How can you be both?"

Jim looked at him, then at Sherlock. "Really? You've never played power games? No d/s in the bedroom, no handcuffs in the kitchen? I'd have thought you'd both be all over the fetishes." He sighed and sat up. "Yes, the Dom is the one in control. But not complete control. Anything that I did..." he stopped and closed his eyes for a moment.

"We don't have to talk about this now," John said gently.

Jim shook his head. "Yes, we do. Anything I did to Seb, he could stop immediately, just by saying one word. He trusted me not to push him to that point. And I trusted him to let me know if I had."

"So, it's trust?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head to the side. "That's all?"

"At the heart of it, isn't everything?" Jim asked in response. He snorted. "I was not expecting a philosophical conversation tonight. I'd have had less wine. Or perhaps more."

Sherlock nodded, sitting back on the couch and looking thoughtful. After a moment, he asked, "How do you know?"

"Know what?" Jim looked at him. His eyes widened, and he shook his head. "Oh, no. No, Sherlock. I am not going to top you so you can explore deviant behavior. No."

Sherlock looked disappointed. Jim looked relieved. And the both of them looked shocked when John cleared his throat and asked, "Why not?"

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was odd, to say the least, to be the only one capable of speech in the room. John watched the two other men sputter and cough like teenagers, then raised one hand. "I have no objections, Jim. If that is what you're worried about. This is something I can't answer, and I know Sherlock. He's going to get his answer, one way or the other. If this is going to happen, I'd rather see it happen with someone I can trust with his safety."

Jim blinked, and his face went pink. "You trust me?" he asked. "With your husband?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't," John answered. "Assuming that you're sober enough?"

Jim nodded, and most determinedly did not look at Sherlock. Sherlock, however, was studying Jim intently. Even from where he was sitting, John could see the sudden sheen of sweat on Jim's brow, and the slight tremble in his hands as he picked up his wine-glass and started to twirl it between his fingers.

"You're nervous. Aroused and nervous. Why?" Sherlock asked. Jim looked at him, then laughed.

"Are you for real?" he barked. "Look at you! Two years ago, I'd have given my left nut -- no, not mine. Someone else's, maybe. I would have given anything to have you on your knees for me. And now... you're asking me. I assume you want to watch?" he asked John.

"Naturally," John agreed.

Jim giggled and rubbed his forehead. "I can't believe I'm going to do this."

"That's a yes, then," Sherlock said brightly, and stood up. "Where do we start?"

The change in Jim was electric -- he sat up straight, his eyes half-lidded, and snapped, "On your knees!"

Sherlock jerked as if he'd been struck, staring in surprise at Jim. Then he slowly, gracefully, lowered himself to his knees. John shifted, his collar and his trousers both suddenly too tight.

"Pretty pretty," Jim crooned, leaning forward in his chair to run one finger over the blade of Sherlock's cheekbone. "Listen to me, pretty. Your safeword is Sebastian. Do you understand how to use it?"

"Sebastian," Sherlock repeated. "I say this if I want you to stop."

"Yes. Now, tell me, pretty pretty. You've never done this before. You do not know your limits. Do I push, or do I explore? No!" Jim's voice cracked like a whip as Sherlock moved to turn and look at John; Sherlock froze and looked back at Jim, who said in a softer voice, "There is only me. From this point until I release you, you follow my directions, you look only to me. Now answer the question."

Sherlock nodded once. "Explore."

"Very good," Jim leaned back, then frowned slightly. "That will be limited. I don't have much in the way of tools anymore."

"Riding crop?" John asked.

"You have one?" Jim sounded shocked. "Yes, please. I do love a good crop. Fetch it, pretty pretty." He paused, then nodded. "You have quite the selection of things here from your experiments. Choose four things other than the crop for me to use on you. Bring them all here. Now."

Sherlock started to rise, and Jim moved, faster than John had seen before; a sharp slap rang out, and Sherlock sprawled on the ground, a stunned and hurt expression on his face.

"I didn't tell you to rise. You stay on your knees, like a proper pet," Jim growled. "Now go fetch."

Sherlock licked his lips, then slowly got onto his hands and knees and crawled out of the room, towards the bedroom he and John shared. Jim watched him go, then looked at John.

"I don't think I hit him hard enough to show," he said. "You've really never taken him in hand like this?"

"Never," John said after clearing his throat. Jim grinned.

"Is that going to change?"

"It might. Now what?"

"We'll see what he brings out. How long do we have until Mrs. Hudson comes back?"

"Two hours, about."

"Plenty of time," Jim said with a smile. "Do you have any rope?"

John frowned, thinking about the contents of the closet that he refused to go near ever since he'd discovered a tarantula living in there. "We might. We seem to have most things."

Jim smiled, then raised his voice, "Bring the rope, pretty pretty."

"Do you always not call them by their name?" John asked.

"Depends. For Sherlock, it feels right," Jim answered. He cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtful. "I usually don't analyze until after. For him, he sets such regard in his persona, in his abilities, that stripping him of them helps to take down his barriers. Brings me closer to his self."

John nodded, intrigued. "You've read psychology?"

"Some," Jim admitted. "Enough to know that they'd have a field day over me." He got up and went over to where Sherlock's coat hung behind the door. He picked up the scarf laying over the coat's shoulder and ran it thorough his fingers. "I'm waiting, my pretty!"

A moment later, Sherlock came back into the room. He was crawling slowly, and it took a moment before John saw why -- he had balanced in his back a short knife, a Wartenberg wheel, a candle, and a pack of pins. And a long coil of rope. In his mouth, he held the riding crop, gripping it between his teeth like a dog would hold a stick. Jim looked at him and laughed.

"Very good!" he crowed. "Very good, pretty pretty. Now, set the toys on the table, without dropping them. Then you may stand up."

It took Sherlock a moment to put everything down, and he slowly rose to his feet. He glanced sidelong at John, smiled slightly, then looked at Jim.

"Stand right where you are. Do not move. If you say a word, I will stop and this will be over," Jim said firmly. He moved around behind Sherlock, then slowly wrapped Sherlock's scarf around his head, blindfolding him in the soft wool. Sherlock shuddered, and John saw his hands start to rise, then clench into fists and settle at his sides.

"Good. Very good," Jim crooned. He stepped back and sighed.

"Oh, you're too precious," he cooed. "Now, pretty pretty. Take off your clothes."


	3. Chapter 3

 Sherlock's hands were shaking slightly as he raised them, fumbling at the buttons on his shirt. John leaned forward, arousal warring with concern -- it had been months since he'd last seen Sherlock's hands shake. Jim noticed and moved over to stand next to John.

"Problem?" he murmured, for John's ears alone.

"Hands," John answered, equally quiet. "Not sure if that's excitement or nerve damage."

Jim's eyes went wide. "Nerve damage?" he repeated, and his voice was a little louder. Loud enough that Sherlock stopped moving.

"From the drugs that Garrity used on him," John answered. "Largactil. Possible side effect of permanent and uncontrollable dystonia."

Jim hissed through his teeth and turned back to face Sherlock. "I should have killed him twice," he murmured, then stepped away from John. "Pretty, pretty," he called out, his voice low. "Why are you shaking?"

Sherlock smoothed his hands down the front of his shirt before answering. "I... am not sure," he said, sounding confused. "I am not at all certain what I am feeling right now."

Jim nodded and looked at John. "Continue?"

John rose and slowly walked around Sherlock before taking one of his husband's hands in his. He examined it, then put his hand into Sherlock's and said, "Squeeze."

The resulting grip was firm as it ever was, and the shaking had stopped. John nodded. He let Sherlock go and stepped back. "You can go on, Jim. It's fascinating."

"Thank you," Jim said with a grin. "Now, pretty. Your clothes?"

Sherlock took a long breath and again ran his hands over his chest, an unconsciously erotic gesture; when he started again on his shirt buttons, his hands were perfectly steady. John smiled slightly as he watched Sherlock strip -- it had been a surprise to discover that Sherlock was an exhibitionist, under certain circumstances. All of which seemed to involve a certain Army doctor. And apparently, now also included a certain former nemesis.

The shirt fell to the floor, and the trousers followed; Jim coughed in surprise.

"No pants?" He grinned slowly, shaking his head. "Naughty boy." He crossed his arms and studied Sherlock for a moment. "Look at him."

"I do. As often as I can," John answered, smiling as he saw a faint flush appear on Sherlock's face.

"He's extraordinary," Jim said. "I'd no idea. Turn around, pretty." Sherlock slowly turned in place, and Jim sighed. "Well, this is going to keep me up nights." He looked around the room, then looked up. "You've had something hanging here?" he asked, pointing at a hook in the ceiling.

"It was for a case," John answered.

Jim nodded, moving over to stand beneath the hook. He cocked his head to the side, stood quietly for a moment, then nodded and turned briskly on his heel. Without a word, he picked up the coil of rope and unfurled it, measuring off a length and cutting it before dragging a chair over and standing on it so that he could reach the hook. As soon as the rope was in place, he jumped down, tugging firmly on the rope.

"Very good. Just what I want. Very nice," he said, cutting free another length of rope. He went back to Sherlock and stood behind him. "Cross your wrists behind you."

Sherlock did as he was bid, and grunted slightly as Jim lashed his wrists behind him. He struggled for a moment, then fell still, his head bowed slightly. John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying his husband. There was something off...

"Now, pretty pretty. Let's play a game--" Jim bit off the rest of what he was going to say when both John and Sherlock winced. "Sorry. Trigger words. I'll have to remember that." He looked at Sherlock and frowned, and John knew that he'd seen the same thing John himself had. "Sherlock, are you all right?" Jim asked.

"Fine. I'm fine," Sherlock answered quickly. His voice was harsh, and Jim glanced at John for a moment, arching an eyebrow. The question was clear: _Do I keep going?_ John nodded slowly, and stood up. He was going to be paying very close attention from this point out.

"Good. Now, come along." Jim took Sherlock's arm and tugged him over to the dangling rope; once Sherlock was in position, Jim went to work, looping the rope around Sherlock's bound wrists, and slowly taking up the slack until Sherlock's arms were almost vertical, his upper body almost parallel to the floor. Jim bound off the rope and ran his hands down Sherlock's arms -- Sherlock caught his breath in response, and Jim stepped back. He gestured to John, and they moved to the other side of the room.

"You've never done this to him?" Jim asked again, his voice a whisper.

"No. Why?"

"Because he doesn't act like a novice," Jim answered. He looked back at Sherlock, who stood like a statue in his bonds, not struggling at all. "He's done this before. But his reactions aren't right. I can't put my finger on it. Should I stop?"

John frowned, crossing his arms over his chest, thinking. He shook his head. "No. He wants this, for some reason. If we don't follow through, he'll find another way to do it, something we can't predict, and can't protect him from. Keep going, and we'll see where it goes." He looked at Jim, meeting his eyes. "I told you. I trust you."

Jim smiled slightly, then turned back to Sherlock. "Right. We'll start with the riding crop."


	4. Chapter 4

 John hung back, bracing himself for what he was certain was going to be a display of controlled savagery -- he'd seen Sherlock use the riding crop on corpses, and expected to see much the same from Jim. To his surprise, Jim wielded the crop with a surprising delicacy, running the flexible tip of the crop up the back of Sherlock's leg, making him jump and moan. After a moment, John understood what Jim was doing -- by tickling Sherlock, Jim was forcing him to move, and thereby making Sherlock put even more stress on his own hyper-extended shoulders. John winced as he watched, one hand moving unconsciously to massage his own shoulder.

Jim was breathing harder when he stepped back, and there was an obvious tenting in his trousers. He licked his lips and looked down at the table, then smiled and picked up the pack of pins. He pulled several pins out of the pack, and looked at John.

"I once had a magnificent pair of gloves," he said. "Butter-soft leather, and the palms were made of mink fur. Beautiful things. I wonder what happened to them?" John looked at him oddly, and Jim smiled, holding up his right hand. His fingers were pressed together, and between the fingers were clasped several pins. As John watched, Jim moved to stand behind Sherlock, his hips almost pressed against Sherlock's arse. He reached out and ran his be-pinned hand down Sherlock's spine, and John saw three parallel lines follow in his wake, livid against Sherlock's pale skin. Sherlock yelped and tried to pull away, then abruptly fell still, gasping. He shook his head, but said nothing. Jim paused for a moment, waiting. Then he continued, "They were called vampire gloves. There were spikes set into the fur, the length of each finger and all over the palm. I only ever slapped one person with those, and he was trying to kill me at the time." He ran his hand over Sherlock's hip, leaving more scarlet trails, and John heard a soft, stuttering hitch in Sherlock's breathing. He was moving before he had a chance to think.

"Stop," he said quickly, dropping to his knees in front of Sherlock. "Jim, stop."

"What?" Jim jumped back, and pins fell to the floor in a silver rain. "John?"

John didn't answer, gently pulling the blindfold off of Sherlock, noticing that the wool was damp.

"Sherlock?" he murmured. "Sherlock, talk to me."

Sherlock shook his head, mouthing silently the word 'no' over and over. His eyes were squeezed closed, and his face deathly pale.

"Cut him down!" John snapped out the order, and Jim jumped, grabbing the knife and slicing through the rope in one quick motion. Sherlock crumpled like a cut-string puppet; John managed to break his fall, gathering his husband into his arms without bothering to untie him.

"Sherlock, talk to me. Sherlock!" John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, feeling him shaking. There was no answer, and he looked up to see Jim crouching next to him.

"What happened?" he asked. Jim shook his head slowly.

"I'm not sure," he answered. "Something I did... I triggered something." He dragged his fingers through his hair. then wrapped his arms around his chest, very obviously upset. "I... shit. I didn't mean to hurt him!"

"Not your fault," John said absently. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and started repeating, "I'm here, Sherlock. I've got you. You're safe. I've got you."

The only answer was another hitched breath, and Sherlock buried his face in John's chest. Then, muffled almost to inaudibility: "John?"

"Yes, love. It's me. It's all right," John answered. He kissed the top of Sherlock's head, then looked up at Jim. There was a look of relief on Jim's face. And something more.

"Who did it, Sherlock?" Jim asked softly. "Who was the bastard?"

"What? Jim, what are you talking about?" John demanded.

"I triggered him. I triggered a memory. Memory of someone hurting him before," Jim said, speaking so quickly that his words almost ran together. "Someone who topped him before. But they did it wrong. They didn't top him, they abused him."


	5. Chapter 5

 John stared at Jim, then closed his eyes and shook his head. "Victor. It had to be Victor," he said softly, and felt Sherlock shiver at the name. "Sherlock, what happened?" Sherlock shook his head, again refusing to speak. "Oh, fuck," John breathed.

"Who is Victor?" Jim asked, in an odd voice. John looked up sharply, and saw the look on Jim's face. Predator. No, John corrected himself. Not predator. Not any more. What he was seeing now was a protector.

"Someone who's been dead quite a few years, Jim," John answered, stroking Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock's... I don't even know what to call him." He stopped, unsure how much he could tell Jim. How much Sherlock would want known. Then he looked down at the man shivering violently in his arms -- shock. Dear God, he was going into shock! That made up his mind. He needed help, and there was only one person in the room who could help him.

"He was Sherlock's lover. And the one who got him hooked on cocaine," John said, not looking up. "He died of an overdose five or six years ago, and Sherlock almost died, too. Greg Lestrade was the one who found them, who saved Sherlock's life. Sherlock had already been helping on the crime scenes, you see. Greg knew him. I don't know much more. I'd no idea about their relationship, except for what Greg's told me."

"And that was?" Jim prompted.

"That Victor Trevor was better off dead. That he was the worst mistake Sherlock has ever made. He wouldn't tell me anything else. Told me that Sherlock would tell me if he wanted me to know. When I asked Sherlock, he told me he'd deleted everything."

Jim nodded. "And what does he mean, deleted?"

"Sherlock can... delete... anything he doesn't want to remember," John answered. "He has himself trained to forget things if they aren't important, or if he thinks they're irrelevant."

Jim sighed, shaking his head. "You can't forget emotions. You can forget details, facts, but not emotions. I did something that pulled the emotions to the surface, but he doesn't remember the details." He ran his hand over his face. "Right. Kiss him."

"What?" John gasped. Jim nodded, his eyes intense.

"Listen. He's lost in an emotional memory loop. You were a soldier, you have to understand shell-shock, right?"

John nodded, seeing what Jim meant, silently cursing himself for not seeing it sooner. "Oh. But--"

Jim gestured sharply, cutting John's words off. "But nothing. You have to break him out. He trusts you. He fucking loves you! You can reach him. You already have -- he knows you. You have to bring him the rest of the way back. So kiss him!"

When he put it that way, John couldn't argue; he pulled Sherlock up, growing even more alarmed at the glazed, almost vacant look on his husband's face. Sherlock moved obediently onto his knees, his head bowed, and Jim cursed softly.

"He was trained. He was well-trained, from the looks of it," he said. "Never could get Seb to be that submissive."

John ignored him, focused completely on Sherlock. He got onto his own knees and moved in front of Sherlock, and felt a sick drop in his stomach when he saw Sherlock flinch away from him. He reached out and gently cupped Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock, look at me. Look at me."

Sherlock shook his head. "...can't... can't look. Never.... never look." When John ducked his own head, he could see Sherlock's eyes were shut.

"Trevor cut him off from his senses," Jim said from behind John. "It was the blindfold, I'd guess. Earplugs, too, no doubt." John looked over his shoulder, and Jim shrugged. "It's what I'd have done."

"Garrity blindfolded him, too," John said, turning back to Sherlock. He took Sherlock's face between his hands, and raised his head up so that he could kiss him. Gently at first, the slightest brush of his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock moaned softly, and John kissed him again, harder. He slid one hand down Sherlock's neck, down his chest to rest at his waist, while the other hand slid back into Sherlock's disheveled curls. His fingers hit a snarl, tugging hard, and Sherlock whimpered against John's lips. Then he pulled back, gasping for breath.

"John?" he asked, his voice shaking. "John?"

"It's all right, Sherlock," John said softly, stroking Sherlock's cheek. "It's me. I'm right here. You can open your eyes."

Sherlock blinked once. Twice. He looked around the flat, then at John. "I... I don't feel right."

"It's all right, Sherlock. You'll be fine," John said, forcing himself to smile. He glanced back at Jim. "Help me get him to bed, will you?"

Between the two of them, they got a very unsteady Sherlock to his feet, and guided him down the short hall to the bedroom. Inside the room, John heard Jim burst into laughter.

"Jesus wept! Look at that bed!" he gasped.

Despite himself, John grinned. The bed did take up most of the small room -- it was custom made, and worth every penny they'd paid for it. Sherlock could take up as much space as he wanted, and John could still have enough room to sleep.

"When he sleeps, he takes up most of the bed," John said, steering Sherlock towards it.

"Well, that makes sense then," Jim answered. "And here I thought it was just a fornicatorium."

"A what?" John stared, and Jim started to giggle. "I'll laugh later. Help me, you great bloody idiot."

Jim sobered quickly and helped, and it was only once they'd gotten Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed that John realized what he'd forgotten to do.

"Jim, do you still have the knife?" he asked. "We need to cut him loose."

"It's in the living room. I'll get it." Jim turned, and stopped at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"No."

"No?" John asked. "Sherlock, why no? We need to get you untied."

"No," Sherlock repeated. "Don't leave me. Don't..." He looked around wildly and stood up. "Please."

"We can't leave you like that!" John insisted.

"We can, for a little while," Jim said. "Until he falls asleep. He's not all back yet. Let's get him settled, get him relaxed. The last thing we want is for him to go feral."

"Feral?"

"Familiar with American superheroes?" Jim asked.

"Yes."

Jim nodded. "Good. Think of the Hulk. You can push a submissive so that they're working on reptile hindbrain only. Saw it happen once -- the bastard tore free of latigo leather straps, then fucked up the room, broke his Mistress' arm, and broke four of his own fingers and his own nose before they got him calmed down. I don't think either of us could stop Sherlock if he went feral. Not without hurting him, or getting seriously hurt."

John nodded slowly. If Sherlock hurt either of them, he'd never forgive himself. "You're the expert," he said. "All right, Sherlock. No one is leaving. We're here. Let's get you into bed."

Soon, all three men were stretched on the bed -- John laying chest to chest with Sherlock, and Jim behind Sherlock, not actually touching him. Sherlock's breathing had slowed, and his eyes were half-lidded with sleep.

"I think he's relaxing," John said softly.

"Good. He should be back to rights once he gets some sleep. He'll find his balance," Jim said. "Then we can figure out what triggered him, see what he does remember. I'd like to talk to Lestrade."

"Let me. I don't think he'd talk to you. Not about this."

"Fine."

Sherlock sighed softly, the sound cutting off all conversation around him. His eyes opened slightly, and he smiled. "John."

"Yes, love?"

"Kiss me again."


	6. Chapter 6

 It was a request that John would never turn down; he pulled Sherlock into his arms and kissed him, a kiss that Sherlock returned with an eagerness that left both of them moaning.

"That would be my cue to leave," John heard Jim say. The bed shifted, and Sherlock tensed, his eyes widening, then squeezing shut.

"No!" He blurted out. On the edge of the bed, Jim froze, the shock on his face as clear as it must have been on John's own.

"No?" Jim finally asked. "You... Sherlock, why? Open your eyes and look at me."

Sherlock swallowed, licking his lips quickly. "I am not supposed to look, Sir."

John caught his breath, and looked at Jim, whose face had gone dead-white. It was a moment before he could answer, and then all he could say was, "Oh." He met John's eyes and shook his head. John closed his own eyes, his mind racing. Could he do this? For Sherlock?

Yes.

He opened his eyes, met Jim's gaze, and nodded. Jim looked stunned, and John nodded again.

Jim took a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair again, leaving it standing up in wild spikes. Then he smiled and leaned forward, running one finger down Sherlock's arm. "I'm not your last master, pretty pretty. You can delete his rules. We'll make our own. The three of us."

"Three?" John whispered in shock.

"You don't think I'm doing this without your input, do you? And you his husband?" Jim asked in response.

There was no possible argument John could make. He nodded again. "All right. Now what?"

Jim smiled again, looking down. "I told you to open your eyes, pretty," he crooned. "I want you to look at me. I want you to see me. To deduce me. I want you to. I want to know that you've put together every single thing that I'm going to do to you. I want to see that in your eyes, when you know what you're in for, and that you cannot do a single thing to stop me. So open your eyes, my dove." Jim stumbled over the last word, his voice faltering. He sat back and licked his lips, then looked down at the coverlet. It took John a moment to realize why.

"You called Baz that," he murmured.

"I did. I... I did, and I'd forgotten. I..."

"You honor me," Sherlock said softly. "To call me what you called him."

Jim's lips twitched, and he cocked his head to one side. "Is it an honor?"

"One I don't deserve."

Jim leaned forward and ran his hand down the long length of Sherlock's thigh. "I'll decide that, pretty. Now, where to begin? We'll start slow, I think. John, will you watch, or participate?"

"I don't know the first thing about this, Jim," John answered.

"You won't have to do anything but lay there. Or, you can go sit over in the chair," he nodded towards the armchair that sat under the window.

"What are you planning?"

"That would be telling," Jim said with a laugh. "Suffice it to say, I'm going to take Sherlock apart, and make him very happy while I do it."

Sherlock shivered again, and John leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Stay or go?" he asked.

"Stay."

"All right." John kissed Sherlock again and looked up at Jim. "What do you want from me?"

"Clothes off, to start with. Give Sherlock a bit of a show. I'll be back in a moment."

#

When Jim returned a few minutes later, John was folding his trousers onto the chair; the first sign he had that Jim was actually in the room was a long, low whistle.

"You're hiding quite a bit under all that wool, Doctor," Jim said, his voice filled with very frank appreciation. "I didn't know you were so well put-together. You should show off more often."

"I'm not walking around the flat naked, Jim," John said firmly.

"Pity. All right. Let me see... just stay where you are for a moment. I'm still working out how we're doing this. Come on, pretty pretty. Off the bed and onto your knees."

Sherlock had been watching John strip. At the sound of Jim's voice, he turned, rolling to sit up, and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, then kneeling next to it. It was the most animated he'd been since the evening had started, and John started to feel better about the choices he'd made.

"Doctor, I will want that chair," Jim said, looking at the foot of the bed. He gestured. "Right here, please."

John moved his clothes, then picked up the chair and put it where Jim pointed. Jim nodded and waved towards it. "Have a seat," he said. "Then, decide something. No, decide two things."

"What's the first one?" John asked as he sat down.

"Do you want to be bound, too? I can go either way," Jim said with a shrug. "But it might be more of an impact to him if you let me tie you to the chair." He looked at John, then smiled. "Oh, naughty Doctor. You've bottomed before."

"We all experimented in uni," John admitted. "Which is why I know I can't do... _this._ Not the way that you do."

"You're too much the healer, of course. You couldn't ever hurt someone you loved. So, may I?"

John looked at the arms of the chair, the cord in Jim's hands. He'd trusted this man with his own life, with Sherlock's life. With the life of Sherlock's daughter. Was there really any question?"

"Go ahead."

Jim looked delighted. "Oh, I do love you, Doctor. You're always such a surprise. Hands on the arms."

In short order, John found his wrists bound firmly to the arms of the chair, his ankles to the legs. He shifted, testing the ropes -- they were comfortable, and he was not going anywhere.

"Now, come here, pretty pretty," Jim called. "Right in front of your doctor. Yes, right here. Now, cross your ankles."

John met Sherlock's eyes as Jim knelt behind him, binding his ankles. Sherlock smiled slightly and sighed, and John relaxed.

"Good. Very good. There is still the second thing you need to decide, Doctor, and I do need your answer before we continue."

"Right. What?"

Jim smiled brightly, "May I fuck your husband?"


	7. Chapter 7

 John stared at him. "You waited until you had the both of us tied up to ask that?"

"Timing is everything," Jim answered. "I promise you, if you say no, I won't. And if you do say yes, I promise that I will be safe. Got a condom and everything. And you know I don't have anything, Doctor. You ran the scans on me yourself!"

John licked his lips and tugged hard on the ropes. Still not going anywhere. If he said no...

"What if I do say no?"

"Then I spend the evening with Mother Thumb and her four gorgeous sons," Jim answered quickly. "You set the boundaries, Doctor."

John met his eyes and saw only the truth there, so he looked down at the top of Sherlock's bowed head. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up and smiled. He was, John realized, completely at ease, in a way that John had only ever seen when it was the two of them together. He had already decided, and was just waiting for John to catch up. John smiled and Sherlock winked at him. Laughing, John looked back at Jim.

"You realize that if we do this, you're going to have to stop looking at the apartment for rent adverts? Because we're not letting you leave."

"You'd want me to stay?" Jim asked. He turned away, his hands working at his shirt buttons. "You'd really want me to stay?"

"Yes, Jim. And yes, Jim."

Jim turned, his eyes wide. "That was..."

"Yes."

"You  _did_ just say I could..."

"Yes."

"And you're  _all right_ with this?"

John nodded again, then cocked his head to one side. "I'm curious. Does a hard-on always turn you into an idiot?"

There was a snort of laughter from Sherlock, and a great peal of giggles from Jim. It took several minutes for Jim to collect himself, and when he did, he continued getting undressed. As he started working on his belt, he grinned wickedly at John, then turned his attention back to Sherlock, reaching out and running his fingers down Sherlock's spine.

"Pretty pretty, why do you see if you can entertain your husband while I finish?" he suggested, moving towards the door. "Don't let him spend."

"Spend?" John repeated. " _Spend_? Who says that?" He turned his head, watching Jim walk away. "I mean that. Who says -- oh, dear God!" John's brain slammed to a full stop as Sherlock's mouth closed over his flaccid cock, coaxing him to full, aching hardness in record time. Then... Sherlock stopped, and John jerked against the ropes binding him as he realized what was going to happen. And that he couldn't do a thing to stop it. Hell, he'd _agreed_ to it!

"Jim!" he groaned as Jim came back into the room. "I am going to fucking wring your neck, I swear to God! I am going to --" His invective came to a sudden, muffled end as Jim leaned over him, caught the back of his neck in one hand, and kissed him. The kiss was hard, fast and brutally hot, and before John had a chance to even try and recover, Jim pulled back and pressed his hand over John's mouth. John _mmphed_ in surprise, unable to say a thing through the tape that now sealed his mouth shut -- Jim smiled, added another strip of tape, then leaned down and kissed John's forehead. As John glared daggers at him, he laughed and pulled his belt free from his own waist, wrapping it around John's to bind him more firmly to the chair.

"Can't have you screaming the house down," Jim said with a grin. "Continue, pretty one, Make him scream," he added as he reached down and picked up one of the items he'd dropped on the bed. John heard the distinctive snap of a nitrile glove, then groaned and closed his eyes as Sherlock started once more to attempt to swallow John whole. Sherlock was an uncommonly good cock-sucker -- he knew exactly what John liked, what would drive him straight over the top, and what would prolong the inevitable. And just how much tooth to use to make John scream like a girl. Before too long, John was howling behind the gag, struggling in his bonds and completely unable to thrust his hips forward into Sherlock's mouth. He heard Jim laugh again, then Sherlock groaned and stopped, his mouth growing slack as he gasped and pressed forward into John, his head digging into John's stomach. John opened his eyes and blinked, seeing Jim kneeling behind Sherlock, one hand resting on Sherlock's bound hands, the other out of sight. John had a pretty good idea where that other hand was.

"Oh, come now, pretty," Jim chided gently. "Surely two fingers isn't enough to distract you from what I told you to do?" He did something, and Sherlock yowled, his voice spiraling up into a range John didn't know he could reach. "Now listen, my pretty. If you stop what you are doing, so do I. So back to work."

Sherlock gasped again, rubbing his cheek against John's thigh. He looked up, his eyes meeting John's through a disheveled fringe of dark curls. Unable to say anything, John nodded, his fingers flexing as he was hit with the uncontrollable urge to push the hair out of Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock blinked slowly, kissed John's leg, and lowered his head once more.

_Jesus!_


	8. Chapter 8

 Jim was in his element -- he ordered Sherlock to keep John from coming, then proceeded to try and drive Sherlock out of his mind, only to stop everything he was doing if Sherlock even for a moment faltered in his attentions to John. John had no idea how long it went on before Jim announced, "Rest break!"

John slumped in the chair, breathing hard through his nose. He was drenched with sweat, and doubted he'd be able to stand once Jim decided they were done. And his cock was still hard, so hard that his teeth hurt. So hard his _hair_ hurt. He blinked until he could focus his eyes again, and looked down at the weight on his lap. Sherlock was no better off than he, and probably worse; he was slumped limply over John's legs, his hair soaking wet, his breathing heavy and warm against John's skin. He arched like a cat, gasping in pleasure as Jim leaned forward and ran his hand down the length of Sherlock's back.

"You're magnificent," Jim murmured. "Absolutely magnificent. You'll get your reward soon, pretty." He stood up slowly, and John noticed for the first time that Jim had never gotten completely undressed. His trousers hung low on his hips, and it was clear that Sherlock wasn't the only one who had foregone pants. He walked over to the bed and picked up a small, foil packet, then came back and knelt down next to the chair.

"Look at me, pretty pretty," he said softly, running gentle fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes, blinking at Jim, that fantastic mind clearly off somewhere near Oz and points east. "You're ready for me now. And your husband is ready for you. The last part of the game, my dove, is for you to bring the both of us off. Without coming yourself. You do not get to come until we do. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded and answered, his voice rough and gravelly as he said, "Yes, sir."

Jim smiled and leaned down to kiss Sherlock, then stood up again and looked at John. "And you, John? Comfortable?"

John nodded and grunted, making Jim laugh. He reached out and tousled John's hair, then moved to kneel behind Sherlock. He unzipped his trousers, and John heard the rip-and-crinkle of the condom wrapper.

"Come now, Sherlock. I can't start until you do."

Sherlock's lips twitched, and he glanced up at John, and John saw a hint of the devil in his eyes. Oh, no... he straightened, making gargled sounds of protest that Sherlock ignored and Jim didn't hear. Then Sherlock's lips closed around John's cock, and he tossed his head back, knowing what was coming.

The last time Sherlock had tried to deep-throat John had been a disaster. They'd both been sick and horny, and Sherlock had offered. He'd wanted to -- hell, they'd both wanted Sherlock to do it. But John's girth was a bit more than would have been expected for a man of his size, and they'd faced the perfect blow-job storm -- Sherlock's throat had closed around the head of John's cock, and Sherlock had passed out from lack of air. John had strictly forbidden him from trying again, and Sherlock had agreed... until now.

There was nothing John could do to stop him, and he felt Sherlock swallowing, felt the head of his cock entering the tight ring of muscle at the back of Sherlock's throat. There was another muffled groan, and Sherlock started moving, bobbing rhythmically against John. It wasn't of his own doing -- Jim was fucking him, hard and fast, fingers clenched on Sherlock's hips. At any other time, John would have wanted to watch, but now... _dear sweet merciful God!_

This time, he was going to explode, and he knew it. John struggled, once more howling behind the gag, wanting to move, wanting his orgasm, and Sherlock's. And Jim's too, just for good measure. He jerked against the ropes, and heard something crack; when he pulled again, his right hand came free. He didn't stop to wonder, or to think about what had happened -- he laced his fingers into Sherlock's hair and tugged, pulling Sherlock's head even closer, until he could feel the flutter of long eyelashes against his skin. Sherlock tried to pull back, and Jim thrust into him again, driving him forward into John. That was the last straw -- John arched in his chair, screaming as he came harder than he'd ever come in his life. There was a cat yowling somewhere else in the room, and it took a moment for John to realize it was Jim.

Movement slowed, then stopped altogether, and John whined as Sherlock moved away, folding slowly into a ball on the floor. Jim sat down next to him, running one hand up and down Sherlock's arm, laughing tiredly.

"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful," he murmured. Then he looked up. "Just a moment to get the bones back in my legs, John. Then... what did you do?" Jim blinked, starting at John's right hand. John shrugged, reaching up and peeling the tape away from his mouth.

"It broke," he said, licking his lips and grimacing at the taste of adhesive. "The cord broke."

"No, sweetheart. The cord didn't break," Jim said. "You broke the chair!" He reached over Sherlock and picked up what had once been the arm of the chair. "You broke the fucking chair!"

"No, fucking broke the chair. Can I get untied now? We need to get him to bed."

Jim staggered to his feet and found the knife, cutting John's bonds before turning his attention to Sherlock. "He's out cold," Jim said, putting the knife down on the dresser.

Between the two of them, they got Sherlock off the floor, and into the bed. He grumbled slightly as they moved him, but fell silent again once he was laying down. John sat down next to him and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, watching as Jim picked things up off the floor.

"You don't have to tidy up," John said, yawning. "We can clean up in the morning. Come to bed."

Jim stopped, turning to look at John. "Here?"

"Why not?"

"I..." Jim stammered. Then he stopped, looked down shyly and smiled. "You know, I did mean that, earlier."

"Mean what?" John asked. Then he remembered. "Oh. Jim..."

"It's all right. I don't expect anything in return--"

"You're my friend, Jim. Of course I love you. Now come to bed."

They put Sherlock in the middle, and the last thing John remembered before falling sleep was the feeling of fingers lacing themselves into his.


	9. Chapter 9

 When John woke up, the far side of the bed was empty, and he could smell coffee. He sat up, smiling down at the still-sleeping Sherlock, then got out of bed and found his bathrobe. Once he was decent, he headed out into the living room.

Jim was standing by the window, drinking coffee and looking out at the street. He didn't turn as John came in. "There's coffee. Breakfast will be ready soon."

"Thanks," John said. He went into the kitchen and fetched himself a cup of coffee, then joined Jim at the window. "You didn't have to leave."

Jim smiled slightly. "Couldn't sleep any more. And I didn't want to wake either of you. He's still asleep?"

John nodded, "After sex, he'll usually sleep a good twelve hours. Now, considering last night, we might see him on Thursday next."

Jim giggled, turning towards John. He sobered and said, "I wasn't expecting this. I never expected... I don't know. This... what does this mean, John? You understand emotions, tell me what this means!"

John shrugged and sipped his coffee. "Does it have to mean anything? I'm not worried about you coming between us. If I was, last night would never have happened. As far as I'm concerned, you add something to us, you don't detract."

"I don't think I ever will understand you, Doctor," Jim said after a long moment. "How is it that you've forgiven me for everything?"

"Because James Moriarty died over a year ago. Jim Moran is a good man, and he hasn't done anything to hurt me. Truth is, I rather like Jim Moran. He's a good friend. Might be something more, if we decide to pursue it. And if my husband agrees." John finished his coffee and turned to set the mug down on the table. When he turned back, Jim was looking at him. Without warning, he leaned forward and kissed John fleetingly on the lips. Then he went back to looking out the window.

"Tell me about him. About this Victor." Jim said softly.

"Told you just about everything I know," John said.

"You hate him. I can hear it in your voice."

"I hate him like I've hated no one else," John agreed. "And the more I find out, the worse it gets. The worst part of it is that he's dead, and I can't do what I want."

"Which is?"

John felt the cold anger rise, the way it always did when he thought about how close he came to losing Sherlock before he'd ever met him. "I took notes from James Moriarty's techniques."

"In your hands, that would be terrifying," Jim mused. "I always forget that you were a soldier."

"Most people do."

"You said just about everything. There are things that you know that you didn't tell me," Jim said. He moved over and sat down in Sherlock's chair. John nodded, stalling for time by going and getting a second cup of coffee, then coming over to sit in his chair.

"Sherlock met Victor when he was... nineteen or twenty. Shortly after Livvy's mother died. They were close," John said.

"I can imagine," Jim murmured. When John looked at him, he nodded. "I do have eyes, Doctor. And a working knowledge of genetics. I was there when you told Owen that Livvy and Sherlock were universal donors. So I know he's her father. I don't know why, but I do know."

John nodded, "Right. Well, Sherlock met Victor not long after Lenore died. And... from what I understand, they were together almost ten years."

"Not entirely correct."

John and Jim both sat up to look at Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway. He was wearing his usual -- pyjama pants, loose shirt and his blue bathrobe. He ran his hand through his hair and looked around; John caught a glimpse of red marks on his wrist, marks that almost matched the ones on John's skin.

"There's coffee. And breakfast," Jim said. "And... we don't need to talk about this right now."

Sherlock nodded and went into the kitchen. When he came back, he was carrying a cup. "If we're going to continue, we do need to have this conversation. I had just turned twenty when I met Victor Trevor." He sat down on the couch, put the mug down on the table, and stared at it for a moment. "I lied to you, John."

"You didn't delete it."

"I couldn't. I tried. You have no idea how hard I tried. But it wouldn't..." he stopped, clasping his hands together and staring at them. "The first year was... wonderful. He thought I was the most amazing person he'd ever seen, and he told me so. We had a little place near the British Museum, and it was... I was happy. Then... I don't know when he started using. I don't know when he first brought it into our flat. But I caught him at it one night. He told me to try it, said it would make everything better. Said if I loved him, I would join him. I did, and for the first time, the very first time, everything slowed. Everything went quiet. I'd never known such quiet before.

"I knew it was dangerous. I knew it was wrong. I tried to stop. I left him, for a time. Went home, back to Sussex. I didn't tell Mummy or Mycroft why. Just that I needed time. I thought... I don't know what I thought. Being back out on the downs, that helped. Having Livvy around helped, too. I started teaching her violin, and about the bees--"

"Bees?" Jim interjected.

"Sherlock's hobby. He keeps bees," John answered. "Found that out on the honeymoon."

"I... see," Jim said, an odd look on his face.

"You're allergic, aren't you?" John asked.

"Very."

"We'll protect you from the bumbles. Go on, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock nodded, "It was good, for a few weeks. but the quiet... Before too long, I was craving the quiet. So I went back to London, and back to him."

"And that was when he hit you the first time, " Jim said flatly. Sherlock looked up, eyes wide.

"How did you know?" he demanded. Jim shrugged silently, and Sherlock sighed. "Yes, that was when he hit me for the first time."

"Why did you stay?" John asked gently.

Sherlock leaned back on the couch, his hands folded together under his chin, his eyes distant. "He told me he loved me. He told me that I meant everything to him. He was telling me the truth -- I'd have known if he was lying to me. I don't know why."

"That was why you asked me," Jim said. "I understand now. You've never had a dom around who you could ask, have you?"

"No. I thought you might be able to explain it."

Jim nodded, "May I guess at what you discovered when he started tying you up and beating you?"

Sherlock looked at him oddly, "You know?"

"It's called sub-space," Jim answered. "It's almost meditative, isn't it?"

"Yes!" Sherlock agreed. "It is. You... you've done it?"

"I've been on both sides, yes," Jim answered with a shrug. "It's the way I was taught. You bottom to learn to be a better top."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "He told me that I was a born submissive. That I'd never be anything but. That I was his, that no one else would want someone like me. He started... well, you saw."

"Cutting you off from your senses." Jim nodded. "Blindfolds, gags, earplugs?"

"Yes. Things over my hands so I couldn't move my fingers. When he decided I needed real discipline, he would tie me so I couldn't move and lock me in a closet." Sherlock stared down at his untouched coffee. "I kept trying to leave him. I kept going back, and hating myself more every time."

"I don't understand. Sherlock, how did you hide this from Mycroft?" John asked.

"Gas-lighting?" Jim asked.

"Yes. Victor was never anything but a perfect gentleman where anyone else could see. Mummy loved him, Mycroft agreed. The only person who didn't like him was Livvy. And he hated her."

"I didn't think I could dislike him any more than I already did," Jim said lightly. Sherlock snorted.

"And this went on for years. Jesus, Sherlock..."

"The turning point was the accident. Mycroft was away on business, and Mummy took ill. She called me and asked me to take Livvy to her dance class. I'd just had my allowance cut off, because Greg told Mycroft about the cocaine. Victor was furious, and he didn't want to let me go -- he'd been trying to keep me away from the family, but he couldn't do it without making Mycroft suspicious. We argued, and I left, knowing that I was going to be punished for it when I got back." Sherlock swallowed and rubbed his hands on his pyjama legs. "I don't remember the accident. I remember waking up in the hospital, with Mycroft at my bedside. How they got him back to London from Sri Lanka that quickly I will never know. He asked me to tell him the truth. He promised to help me." Sherlock looked up, meeting John's eyes. "They... they'd found the bruises from the beating I'd gotten when Mycroft cut off my bank account. To say that Mycroft was livid was to be mild."

You could have heard a pin drop anywhere in the flat. It seemed as if even the traffic outside the window had been silenced. Without a word, John rose, moved over to the couch, and sat down next to Sherlock, taking his hand. Sherlock squeezed his fingers and nodded.

"I wasn't badly hurt. I was out of the hospital the next day. Mycroft wanted to go to the flat with me, but Livvy was scheduled for surgery, and I told him to stay. Victor would be at work, and I would be able to get my things and get out before he got home. But he was there, waiting for me." Sherlock looked at John. "What has Greg told you?"

"That he found Victor dead of an overdose. And that it was a miracle you survived," John answered.

Sherlock smiled slightly. "He didn't put it into the official record, either. Mycroft called him and asked him to come after me. Told him that Victor had been abusing me. Greg came to the flat unofficially, and he hid what he really found there."

John heard movement, then Jim joined them on the couch, taking Sherlock's other hand. "Sherlock, stop," he said, his voice firm. "You don't have to tell us. You don't have to relive it."

"He didn't rape me, Jim," Sherlock said. "He was going to. He attacked me as I came into the flat, knocked me unconscious. He stripped me and tied me to the bed, gagged and blindfolded. Before he put the earplugs into my ears, he told me what he was going to do, in great detail. But he didn't have a chance. He injected something into my arm. I don't know what. He said it was new, his dealer that just given it to him. That it would make me never want to leave him again. Then he took his own dose... and I felt the bed shake when he hit it. I think he was dead before he hit the floor. I passed out, and woke up back in the hospital three days later. I went from there into a rehab facility that Mycroft suggested."

"Sherlock, where is he buried? Do you know?" Jim asked, that odd sing-song back in his voice. John leaned forward to look at him, then licked his lips.

"I don't know. I never asked. Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Because I want to go and piss on his bones," Jim answered.

John snickered. "Mind if I join you?"

"Oh, of course not!" Jim answered. "I'd love the company."

"You two are insane," Sherlock said, but he was smiling.

"Yes, but you like us this way," Jim quipped. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "Thank you for telling me. Now I know what lines not to cross."

John felt Sherlock's hands shake. "You're not leaving?"

"Sherlock, darling. Just because that fuck told you that no one else would ever love you, would ever want you, doesn't make it true," Jim said. He picked up Sherlock's left hand, and angled it so the light glinted off the gold ring on his finger. "Look, you've got a ring on your finger put there by one of the best men I know. Doesn't that prove him wrong?"

Sherlock ran his thumb over the ring and smiled, leaning into John's side. "I knew that."

"We will have boundaries, though," Jim continued. "For example, we won't be playing in your bedroom any more. We'll play in mine. I can soundproof that one more effectively than yours." Jim looked up, towards the door. "Someone is on the stairs."

Almost immediately after the words were out of his mouth, there was a knock on the door. It opened, and Mycroft walked in. "Good morning," he said cheerfully.

"Brother?" Sherlock said slowly. "What's the occasion?"

Mycroft smiled, closing the door behind him. "Uncle Napoleon sends his regards, and asks you to remember to draw the blinds. Do you have any idea what he is talking about?"

John coughed, feeling his face grow warm. Next to him, Sherlock groaned. Jim just looked confused. He rose, went to the window and looked out, then jumped back.

"He watched us?" he demanded.

"From what I gather, he saw only the prelude, and only enough that he was concerned, and asked me to stop in and check on your welfare. Sherlock?"

"I'm fine, Mycroft. We've... exorcised some demons," Sherlock said slowly.

"Ah. And I assume that you mean that in the psychological sense, and not in Miss Rosenberg's?"

"Yes, Mycroft. Psychological," John answered. "We're all fine."

"Very good," Mycroft smiled and turned towards the door.

"Stay for breakfast?" Jim asked quickly. "It... might not be very edible, though. I got distracted."

"Ah, no thank you, Jim," Mycroft answered. As he started out the door, John cleared his throat.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, John?"

"Who won?"

Mycroft stopped, looking back into the room. "You knew about that?"

"Learned from the best. So, who won?" John grinned. "How much are you out, Mycroft?"

"Fifty pounds. It's no matter, really. Greg won the pool."

"Pool? What pool? John, what pool?" Jim asked.

"The one they tried to have behind our backs, as to just when we'd all end up in bed together," John answered with a grin.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock gasped.

"I had you down for three days ago. Really, Brother, you do drag your feet so!"


End file.
